Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 47

On lawns and in windows throughout the Boughery, Christmas lights were already on display, a hint of what was to come in days and weeks ahead. It was a gladdening sight as Theo made the final steps to Glissen House.

Asher was waiting on the porch to welcome everyone. With one exception, the guests all arrived precisely at seven. They exchanged brief greetings and pleasantries outside before being led by Asher through a wreath-laden front door into the warmth of the house.

Basil was dressed in a blazer and corduroy pants for the special occasion. It appeared that a brush or a comb had done battle with his unruly hair and had made moderate progress in bringing order out of chaos. When he introduced his girlfriend, Trina, to Theo, she stepped forward and kissed the old man on the cheek, taking a liberty that seemed instantly to exist between them because of their shared affection for Basil.

Theo grinned broadly, leaned into the kiss, and reciprocated. He held her hands in his own and said, “So, you are Katrina. Like the hurricane?”

Before she could reply, Basil cut in. “Actually, Theo, she’s stronger, tougher, and more dangerous than the hurricane! Don’t make her mad!”

Trina elbowed Basil playfully. She thanked Theo for the portrait and for being so good to her boyfriend. “He has told me all about you.”

She was wearing a green gingham dress, square neck and long sleeves, with a cream-colored shawl to ward off the chill. Her demeanor, despite the stormy name, hinted at shyness. Theo liked her instantly.

Simone, the youngest member of the party that evening, had spent most of the day learning a new piece of music for an upcoming Christmas performance. Not a student or professor had entered the music building all day. The absence of any other activity or sound was unsettling to Simone — things, frankly, were too quiet, even lonely — and he had found it difficult to get much done in the practice studio. The longer the day dragged on, the more he had looked forward to the evening.

He arrived with a cake in hand and, like Basil, was attired in finery: a starched white uncollared shirt, every button buttoned; light gray blazer; dark gray slacks; and black leather shoes. Theo guessed the outfit was from Simone’s “performance wardrobe.”

Gratefulness radiated from the young face. He was pleased to be among friends.

And at the other end of the country, a mother gave thanks that her son had a place to go on that holiday, so far away from home.

Minnette and Derrick had arrived earlier in the day, to help Uncle Asher and Aunt Brooke make final preparations for the evening feast.

Minnette’s memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas were firmly anchored in Glissen House, where she had spent so much of her childhood with Gammy. As a little girl and teenager, she routinely helped Gammy in the kitchen, where she was given tasks suitable for her age, and where she felt needed and valued. Aunt Brooke and cousin Samantha were often there as well, especially on holidays. Minnette had learned from watching them what the phrase “mother and daughter” could look like in real life. (And, looking back on those days, she wondered if anything quite nourished friendship like the act of cooking together.)

In the week leading up to the dinner party, Aunt Brooke and Minnette had been hard at it in the kitchen, cutting, mixing, measuring, seasoning, and assembling a bedazzling collection of dishes. They frequently invoked Gammy’s memory. “Now, when did she add this to the dressing?”

And they talked the talk of women who were privy to each other’s secrets and free to speak in absolute confidence. Their long, sprawling conversations, which occurred while their hands were busy with casserole prep, careened from family issues to health issues to friend news to frustrations and challenges.

Minnette’s ongoing friction with her father was a predictable part of such conversations. Aunt Brooke had a barely sustainable tolerance of Pearce’s rude self-obsession, but she did a passable job of maintaining civility toward him. She tried especially hard not to be too critical or belittling of him when speaking with Minnette. He was Minnette’s father, after all. And Asher’s brother.

How, Brooke sometimes wondered, could two so very different people, her husband and his brother, come from the same home? She regretted beyond words that Minnette lived with such pressure to please her unpleasable father.

“How’s work?” Brooke asked.

Minnette replied with an introductory groan. “Ugh. A grind. I can barely make myself go in lots of mornings. I was talking to a woman the other day who delivers newspapers to people’s houses, before sunrise no less, and she said she loves her job. She’s been doing it for thirteen years and only missed one day. And she says she loves it. I was so envious. Here I am, a CPA, making really good money and having this bright future in this respectable profession, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say that I love my job.”

Brooke nodded as she repeated a question she had asked numerous times before. “And you still feel like you can’t leave it?”

Minnette exhaled her frustration and shook her head with an air of defeat. “After all it took me to get here? I guess it would be crazy to throw all that work away. And, my gosh, Dad would not let me live it down. He still has to remind me every time we talk of how much he sacrificed to put me through school. The martyr of Golden.”

Brooke’s face, and the shake of her head, registered pity (for Minnette) and contempt (for Pearce). After a brief silence, she lowered her voice (needlessly, since the house was empty) to ask a question only she would know to ask. “You and Derrick still thinking about having children?’

Minnette answered as she always did. “We both want to, really badly. The time just doesn’t seem right.”

At that moment, even the scent of plenitude, the sweetness of the holiday, and the surrounding beauty could not lift the heaviness of the young woman’s thoughts. She had friends who lived with the burden of childlessness because of infertility. Her childlessness was voluntary, the result of a college diploma and a career path.

And fear.

And success.

And something to prove. To whom?

The questions surrounded her like rabid dogs. She stood quietly at the counter and chopped celery.

On Thanksgiving Day, while Brooke and Minnette worked on food in the kitchen, Asher fulfilled an annual obligation that put his skill as an artist on vivid display. It was his job to set the long table in the dining room, a spacious area that was used on only the most significant of occasions. For most of the year, often for months on end, it sat regal and unoccupied.

Some considered rooms like this one, fancy and rarely used, as a pretentious waste of space and a long outdated display of snobbery. Others, of a more traditional bent, equated such rooms to a Holy of Holies, to be entered rarely, reverently, and expectantly. (Growing up, Asher and Pearce knew that the dining room was off limits for play. It was fiercely defended by their mother.)

At each place setting, Asher had laid silverware, bone china, and crystal glasses with exactitude of spacing and balance. Those dishes and cutlery had been in the family for generations. Lace-bordered placemats and cloth napkins, tied with ribbons, underscored the specialness of the evening. At each setting, delicate vases two inches high held tiny blossoms and cuttings from the backyard. An arrangement of flowers and fall foliage, bordered by two column candles, centered the table. All other available space was reserved for platters and dishes of food.

Name cards, in Asher’s unique script, designated who would sit where. The choices had been well thought through by him and Brooke.

Soft lamplight created sectors of honey gold around the house. Gammy always preferred the diffuse lighting of scattered lamps and candles to the harsh brightness of overhead fixtures. Brooke and Minnette had both inherited that preference from her.

While final preparations were being made in the kitchen and the other guests mingled, Theo walked to an adjacent room, hoping some of Asher’s work might be on display. In fact, a number of pieces were hung throughout the room, but most were by other artists: a pen and ink wash of a cityscape, a still life of zinnias, an earth-tone abstract in oil.

Theo’s attention was eventually drawn to a grouping of three small portraits, side by side, all in pencil. He was leaning toward them, hands clasped behind his back in his “studying posture,” when Asher entered the room.

“I had a feeling you’d be wandering around.”

Theo looked up. “I hope I am not being impolite.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” Asher looked at the portraits in front of Theo. “It probably seems a bit vain to have my own stuff on display, but usually I just bring ‘em home to get ‘em off the studio floor. Brooke selects which ones to hang on the walls.”

“She makes very good choices.” Theo nodded at the three portraits. “Asher, I know we only have a moment before the meal, but please tell me about these.”

“Sure. All three of those are of my mom. She had such an interesting face, so much subtlety and character, always different and always the same somehow. So, this is her at twenty-five. I did it from a photograph. This is her at fifty. And this is her at seventy-five.”

Theo noted: at twenty-five, spry; at fifty, settled; at seventy-five, tired. He nodded as he gazed at the triptych. “Once again, Asher, your work is remarkable. I don’t know if she grows more beautiful left to right or right to left.”

A call from Minnette in the dining room announced that the meal was ready to be served.

Accolades — about the appearance and feel of the house, about the aroma that greeted the guests and foretold the feast, about the weather and autumn color that had been so gloriously on display all week — were in generous supply.

Lightheartedness reigned.

Everyone was present but Pearce.

Brooke had learned, through a history of disappointments, not to wait for him. Frankly, she had been reluctant to invite him — even if he was Asher’s brother — especially with first-time guests around the table that night.

If he showed up, he would be welcome. But his absence, if he didn’t, would would not be considered a loss.

Finally, everything was set. The table was worthy of a Rockwell painting. Brooke pushed a strand of loose hair from her face with the back of her hand, took off her apron, surveyed the abundance, and spoke the awaited words. “Well, let’s eat. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

As if on cue, the front door opened, and Pearce stormed into the room. Everything about him suggested hurry. Before meeting or acknowledging anyone else in the room, he pretended an apology that quickly became an opportunity to assert his importance.

“Sorry I’m late. Aw, man, what a day. I have a bunch of guys working on a remodel down on First. A bunch of Mexicans, so they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. They’re still down there. I told ‘ em don’t even think about quitting till all the windows are glazed. You can hardly get decent help these days.”

Brooke pretended a welcome in return. Her voice, so cheerful seconds earlier, was tense. “Well, Pearce, we’re glad you could join us.” Her face expressed a much different sentiment.

Asher introduced him to the other guests. Pearce nodded at them with hardly a glance until he looked at Theo. He hesitated, ever so briefly, as if trying to place the face. Had he seen the old man before?

In fact, he had.

Months earlier, on the bench at the Fedder. The Talker. The Phone. The Portuguese national anthem.

Theo, too, made the connection immediately but held his peace.

After meeting his fellow guests, Pearce yanked a chair away from the table and sat down. He was the first to do so.

The other men, following Theo’s lead, stood until the three women were in their chairs. Pearce was oblivious to the gesture of respect.

When everyone was seated, Asher greeted everyone again. “Before we begin, I asked Theo if he would give us a blessing over the meal.”

Pearce, who was already reaching across his plate to one of the casseroles, pulled back his hand awkwardly to wait for an “amen.”

Theo focused his attention on Brooke. “Brooke, first, I think we owe you our thanks. Simone and I particularly, both so far from our homes, are grateful that you have included us in your family today. You all,” he looked at every face around the table, even Pearce’s, “have been so kind. Asher asked me to offer a blessing. He told me a prayer would be permissible. Shall we?”

Everyone bowed their heads.

What followed was a short but eloquent recitation of recent gifts, with a pause before each.

The beauty of portraits .

Laughter at the Verbivore.

Ellen’s love of songbirds.

The unhurried delight of thoughtful conversation.

The glorious mystery of music.

The willingness of Asher and Brooke to welcome others into their home. “For all of these gifts that point to You in heaven, we do give —”

A phone buzzed.

It was not loud, but given the profound silence that filled the room at the moment, it was inescapable. Pearce slid his chair back from the table, so he could remove the phone from his pants pocket. As Theo attempted to conclude the blessing, Pearce tapped the screen of his device.

When “amen” was finally pronounced, Pearce’s head remained bowed over his phone, shaking in disgust.

“Dammit,” he hissed. “They just broke one of the windows. Shhhhht. Did they have to ruin my Thanksgiving? Really?”

Asher was incredulous and ashamed. And speechless.

Brooke’s face blanched with the fury of one publicly humiliated. Minnette’s cheeks turned crimson with embarrassment, as if her father’s behavior was her fault somehow.

Basil, Trina, and Simone were at a loss. The sweetness of the occasion had soured in a matter of seconds.

Theo broke the spell, speaking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Brooke, how would you like us to serve the food?”

With that, dishes moved, plates filled, “pleases” and “thank-yous” were exchanged, and an air of polite camaraderie gradually reclaimed the room. In short order, the stench of Pearce’s grand entry was overpowered by the mingled fragrance of warm sourdough, curried fruit, buttered wild rice, cinnamon sweet potatoes, ham, and turkey; in short, the same recipes that had been served on Thanksgiving Day for decades at that table .

Compliments to Brooke were plentiful.

As everyone ate, conversation tended to be one person talking at a time. Eight ate as one spoke.

Simone, in response to a question from Basil, explained the piece of music he had been learning earlier in the day. That led to Minnette asking Trina if she had a favorite song among Basil’s repertoire, which led to Brooke asking Theo if he attended many plays or concerts in New York, which led to Theo asking Derrick if there had been any entertaining cases in the DA’s office recently.

Theo wanted to ask about Mr. Mendez, the Guatemalan defendant, but thought it best to refrain, thinking the subject might be too heavy for such a convivial setting.

While the others ate, talked, and laughed, Pearce fidgeted, listening half-heartedly to the conversation. He had placed his telephone on the table for easy access. He checked it every couple of minutes, for no obvious reason. His fixation on the screen escaped no one’s notice.

At one lull in the conversation, Asher cleared his throat in theatrical fashion for an announcement he wished to make. “Brooke and I have some very good news to share tonight.” All eyes turned intently in his direction.

“Some of y’all haven’t met our daughter, Samantha. She lives in South Carolina, just outside of Greenville. She’s been working as a middle-school teacher for nine years, and if I say so myself, she is fantastic at her job. She teaches seventh graders at a low-income public school.”

Basil shook his head. “God bless ’er. That’s tough work.”

Asher nodded. “Yes it is. I wonder sometimes how she does it, but she’s just wired that way. She was teacher of the year in her third year there and is something of an authority on functional illiteracy among low-income adolescents — I think I said that right. We’re really proud of her. She takes after her mother.”

Minnette felt almost light-headed as she listened to her Uncle Asher. What must it feel like to be his daughter? She could not imagine her own father, just five feet away, ever speaking of her in anything other than financial terms.

She had read, just that week, of a study done by Harvard researchers. Young people were asked if their parents would rather they be kind or be wealthy. The overwhelming majority had chosen the latter. She would have too.

Asher and Brooke seemed genuinely pleased that their daughter, Samantha, was kind.

“The reason she’s not here tonight is because she’s celebrating Thanksgiving with her boyfriend and his family. Our good news is that he’s going to ask her to marry him tonight. We fully expect that sometime later this evening, maybe even while y’all’re here, we’re gonna get a phone call telling us to get ready for a wedding next year.”

Minnette beamed and raised her glass. “To my dear Cousin Sam. Finally!” Everyone else, even Pearce, joined in.

“Brooke and I are so happy for them,” Asher said. “We think Samantha could have been single and content forever, but we love the young man and couldn’t have picked a better match for her.”

Then Pearce’s curt, dismissive voice broke the spell. “What does he do?”

The question had the feel of an accusation. Uncle Pearce had always thought Samantha’s choice of vocation — schoolteacher — was insanely shortsighted at best and a waste at worst. She was, by his criteria, capable of so much more. He hoped her choice of husband showed better financial judgment.

Asher said, “Cody is doing research on farming in South Central Asia. He spent the last two summers in Afghanistan helping villagers improve crop production. You know, they have some awful droughts over there.”

Pearce straightened up in disbelief and shook his head in disapproval. “You’re kidding me! Is there any future in that? How much does it pay?”

Asher tried to ignore the tone of Pearce’s question. “We have no idea, but he seems to have a serious sense of purpose about it. It makes me and Brooke a little nervous to think they might end up over there someday — it’s a hard place for women — but that’ll obviously be their decision.”

Pearce guffawed. “That sounds ridiculous to me. If I were you, I’d put my foot down while I still could. Tell him there’s no way she ever goes over there. Taking care of your daughter is part of your job, you know. And, my god, tell him to get a real job. One of ‘em has got to make some money. Don’t they even think about being able to take care of themselves?”

Pearce’s contempt was threatening to reclaim the room again when Theo, in a stroke of diversionary genius, cut in. “Pearce, Asher tells me your mother grew up in this house.”

Pearce seemed surprised at being spoken to. “That’s right,” as if to say, “What’s your point, and who cares?”

Theo pressed on, “What was your mother like?”

Pearce’s face registered utter bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

“Well, how would you describe her? What sort of person was she? What made her happy? Who were her friends?”

It was obvious the question had yanked Pearce from some parallel universe, of which he was the center, into the present reality, where he was only one of the group. To be answered, the question would require at least some measure of humanity, some degree of introspection, and some reawakening of memory. Theo had, in effect, fired a poison dart at the heart of Pearce’s self-obsession.

Others at the table, especially family members, waited with total attention, eyes fixed on Pearce, as he stumbled toward an answer. Even Asher and Brooke weren’t sure what he might say or how he felt about his mother.

“She was a nice woman,” he said finally, followed by a long pause, a shrug, and a tilt of the head. “She was, I mean, hell, I guess you’d say she was a good mother. She had a favorite son, for sure. He was the golden boy, and I was the rebel.” Pearce nodded toward Asher. No one laughed. Asher offered no reply .

Theo, however, nodded toward a framed photograph on a sideboard near the table. “Is, uh, is that her in the picture?” The woman in the picture was looking directly into the camera — smiling countenance, gentle self-assuredness, steady eyes. She was holding two little boys, one in each arm.

“Yeah. That’s her. Long time ago. We were just little kids.”

“Which one is you?”

“The one on her right.”

“It looks from here like she loved the two little boys just the same.”

It was a daring statement to make, being as it was a direct challenge to Pearce’s previous assertion about his mother’s favoritism.

“Well, it didn’t feel like it. And there’s no doubt she adored her little artist. She was a nice lady, but I don’t think she really understood the value of things.”

Before Peare could say anything further, Theo broke in. “That, uh, that is a most interesting phrase, ‘the value of things.’ What do you mean by that? Where does one go to learn the value of things?”

Pearce snorted with impatience and disdain. When he finally spoke, the words reeked of condescension. “What is this, twenty questions? You’re kidding, aren’t you? Everybody knows the value . . .”

Pearce’s phone buzzed. He reached for it eagerly, relieved that the inquisition had been interrupted. He raised his left hand, index finger pointing upward, as if to signal, “Hold on. This is important.”

The others listened in. They had no choice.

Pearce rolled his eyes in disgust. “You’ve got to be kidding me! . . . How did it happen? . . . What the hell? You damn well better have insurance on your crew. I’ll be right there.”

Pearce finished the call. He held up his hands in mock exasperation as though he hated that he must leave such good company. Once again, he scraped his chair noisily away from the table, rose, and turned to leave without a word of thanks or good wishes. He never acknowledged his daughter .

The front door closed loudly behind him.

What followed was an awkward silence and a collective sigh of relief, as if a cactus had just left a room full of balloons.

Asher broke the silence. “Y’all, I’m so sorry. I don’t really know what to say. That’s just the way Pearce is. We had hoped for a better version of him to show up this evening, but what you got, I’m afraid, was typical Pearce.”

Theo replied promptly, even cheerfully. “Well, nothing at all took away from the most delicious Thanksgiving meal I have ever had in my life. Here’s to Brooke, the chef, and to Minnette, the sous-chef.”

He raised his glass, arched his eyebrows, and looked at Minnette, whose expression brimmed with weariness and hurt. Everyone joined the toast and tried to pretend that Pearce had never been in the room.

When glasses were returned to the table, Brooke announced dessert. “Maybe we can get some sweetness back into the evening.”

Plates were served and coffee poured. Theo turned to Minnette. “So, Minnette, same question to you. Pick up where your father left off. What was your grandmother like? What did she value?”

Conversation, congenial this time and steeped in praise of Gammy, continued until more than one pair of eyes showed signs of drowsiness. Asher finally thanked everyone for joining them, insisted over the objection of willing volunteers that he would clean the kitchen, and turned on porch lights for safe passage down the front steps.

Theo touched a palm to Brooke’s cheek as he repeated his gratitude for her hospitality. He did the same with Minnette. He told Trina how happy he was to finally meet her and expressed his hope that they might visit again sometime soon.

“There is a fine musician who performs on the sidewalk where I live. Maybe you could meet me there one night to hear him sing and play. If he does a really good job, we’ll leave him a big tip.”

She kissed his cheek again .

Theo and Simone left Glissen House and walked down South Broadway together. When they reached the music school, they parted ways, Theo to continue home and Simone to retrieve his cello before doing the same.

As he walked up the stairs to the apartment, Theo heard Christmas carols in the distance, amplified down the Promenade from one of the few bars open for business that night. He turned to look at the river and the lights on the western shore.